Sometimes I feel that I will burst if I hear once again first and black in the same sentence. I have nothing against being first or excelling or being supreme in a chosen field or in a competition or even in a queue, but when I hear the words first and black, my spirit sighs and it’s as if I want to die. I know this sounds so exaggerated, and I don’t wish to degrade the achievements of those who have reached the pinnacle through sheer hard work, devotion to a cause, or mastered their craft.

Why is it that in the 21st century, when we have come so far, in terms of addressing racism, colour prejudice and the way we treat others in terms of the colour of their skin, speaking boldly about equality, diversity, inclusion and acceptance of other’s culture, mixing pots, melting pots, you name it – there’s a term which embraces it, yet still the races are not equal, such a pity that our ethnicity has shown that we haven’t grown and how much further we still need to go. It is woeful, that we are hearing about the first black president, the first black film director, the first black model on the cover of Vogue UK. It’s neither wonderful or amazing in my book. Yes of course the achievements are – of that there is no doubt. But ought we still to be referring to skin colour when praise is due? Is it some sort of an extraordinary feat to be both black and an achiever? Are those terms mutually exclusive, so when it coincides – ought we to be doubly impressed?

How can we as a race in present times, allow for such archaic language to seep into our consciousness? When Barack Obama became president of the United States of America, was it necessary for us to be enlightened and educated about the hue of his skin? And Steve McQueen of ’12 Years a Slave’ fame, when he became the happy recipient of an Academy Award for Best Picture, did it enhance the view to know that he was black? Would that have escaped our notice somehow, imagining that all the audience were in some way colour blind on that auspicious night? My heart sinks when I think that Donyale Luna a black model who covered in Vogue UK was the first to do so. But I was heartened when I heard the editor of Vogue UK (Alexandra Shulman) talking on the radio about this and I smiled when the presenter commented on her [Luna] being the first black model to do so, to which the editor responded “could we drop the ‘first black’ please?” A woman after my own heart!

Wow Lady G! What an amazing letter to your white grandfather. I don’t know if I could have worded this as well to my own white great, great grandfather, so can I say I echo your sentiments?
Thank you for sharing, this is so bitter-sweet…

My name is Gwin and I am one of your great-grandchildren. Today, I am writing to you in hopes that your soul has ascended to an elevated level of understanding and empathy-having left your dark and dense material world many years ago.

As you can see, I am not exactly what you might have expected.

I am not Caucasian.

I am a strong and beautiful brown-skinned girl.

I am Black.

We are Black.

You see, I am one of many.

We are the grandchildren of your son, Leroy.

From what I have been told, our grandfather spent quite a bit of time at your home with you and your other children.

In fact, he once showed me a knee injury that he sustained while playing on your farm.

My head is very clear today. Not jumbled or stifled or even unclear. If I focus on the things that are important to me, I will come through fine. This is not a race or a competition, I feel it is an opportunity to open doors that have been closed to me for a very long time. Which doors have been closed to me? Well there’s a door which is coloured light blue with a white door bell and a black knocker. It is regal looking as if it belongs in a palace. I’m not sure what’s behind that door, but I am very interested to open it and have a good look.

I’m pushing it now, but it is stiff and I really have to put my whole body against it. It gives and flies open! The room is dark, but once my eyes are focused, I can see shapes. There is a heart. It is red and pulsating and vibrant. It fills the room. The glow of promise and dreams gets brighter and it has a perfume: one that I do not recognise. But it makes me want to breathe in deeply until every part of my being is filled with it, and I look around in wonder to see what else there is within these walls.

I feel a sadness that I am only now discovering what lies behind the light blue door. But tinged with that is hope, hope that this room with its pulsating heart will always be available to me. I close the door, and touch my own heart: it leaps with recognition and approval.